


Snow (Hey Oh)

by apodiopsys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Peter Pan Fusion, Gen, Kid Fic, awww yeee more bb!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:39:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apodiopsys/pseuds/apodiopsys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John takes bb!Dean on one of his first ghost hunts in the middle of winter and gets seperated from each other. Suddenly a man with kind blue eyes and a trench coat is beside him and Dean doesn't feel so scared anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow (Hey Oh)

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for a prompt in the hoodie_time Winter/Holiday themed Dean-focused h/c comment-fic meme on livejournal.

Dean is seven when Dad takes him hunting. He doesn’t want to go; Dean is jealous of his little brother, jealous of Sammy who looks cosy and warm wrapped up in pj’s and a blanket, sitting on the sofa with strict orders not to move, not to open the door and absolutely not to leave the room for anything. Instead, he gets jeans and a jacket and cold cold snow, his breath travelling in visible clouds on the air. The best part is that he’s allowed to sit up front in the Impala, and he feels proud and important sitting up there with Dad even though every single fiber of his being wants to be back in the motel.

“I need you to keep an eye out,” Dad says to him when they’re there, parked in an empty lot with trees surrounding them on either side. It’s dark, inky black darkness that goes on forever and ever. If Dean tipped his head back he’d see trees that go on for miles and beyond the tips of snow-covered pine, he’d see stars blinking down while clouds roll slowly across the sky. “There are two of them,” he hands Dean a knife, blade made of silver. He isn’t allowed to have a gun, not yet. The knife in his hand isn’t very reassuring. “And if you see one of them you yell and I’ll come get you.” They’re eye level, John kneeling next to the Impala, next to the open door by the passenger seat where Dean is sitting. “Stay close to me. Make sure I’m always in sight. If you can’t see me I need you to stay where you are and don’t move until I find you. Is that understood?”

His voice doesn’t waver when he says, “Yes, sir.” His father nods and stands up and that’s Dean’s cue to get out of the car and follow him into the trees. He resolutely doesn’t think about how the snow covered branches look like skinny arms and bones reaching out for him. His wrists are cold where the jacket sleeves are too short for him; Dean shoves his hands further into his pockets and grips the knife tighter, eyes flicking from side to side and then back at Dad every few seconds.

Panic strikes him like a slap to the face when he looks from side to side and then ahead of himself and realizes that Dad - the giant, broad shouldered, reassuring form of his Dad isn’t in front of him anymore. He freezes, breath freezing with him as a cloud disappears into the sky and a new one doesn’t reform at his lips. Dean is still for about a minute, waiting - waiting for him to reappear in front of him and scold him for slowing down, waiting for one of the ghosts he was warned about to appear so that he has a good reason to yell. Neither things happen and cold seeps into him, a harsh wind starting up that bites at his cheeks and ears. He has to move or Dean thinks he might die of cold.

At first he just moves in little circles, footprints digging a circular trench in the snow until he’s walking on frozen dirt. The footsteps keep getting further and further apart until he’s gone in a circle around one tree, and then two, and then three. Dean keeps his eyes closed against the wind, pushing sleet and snow against him in the form of brick walls. His imagination is just supplying him with images of the motel, of Sammy sleeping on the sofa underneath the wooly blanket he insists on taking everywhere with him. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he can taste salt on his tongue from the tears that are slowly trickling their way down his face.

It shocks him when he walks headlong into a tree, bouncing back into the snow. He can’t get up, Dean _can’t._ He crawls forwards until he’s more or less protected by the giant trunk of the tree, thicker than twice him. Dad said to wait where he was until he found him and he wants to wait, he can’t move anymore, he can’t walk another inch. Dean hears something rattling and his head twists from side to side, trying to place the sound. It takes a few minutes for him to realize that it’s the sound of his teeth chattering.

The snow is so soft. It isn’t even cold anymore, Dean thinks. Actually, it’s almost hot against his cheek, blurring his vision. He can see a cloud of air disappearing in front of him and then the picture is fading in and out of focus, eyes slipping shut. He’s so sleepy and it’s so warm and soft and he thinks that maybe just a little nap won’t hurt.

“Boy,” a voice from somewhere above him says. “Why are you crying?”

It requires a huge amount of effort for Dean to open his eyes, to sit up and look at the man in front of him. He’s only wearing a trench coat, the kind of thing Dad wears in the spring when it’s warm and all the snow is gone. “M-m-mister,” his teeth chatter harshly, clicking and catching the tip of his tongue until he can taste a metallic tang. “Aren’t you c-c-c-cold?”

His eyes are blue, so much clearer than anything else Dean can see right now. Everything is a little blurry, just out of focus. It’s like everything is being bathed in a soft white light. “I do not feel cold,” the voice says, and it’s suddenly a lot closer to Dean than it was before. The man is kneeling in front of him, wearing a button up shirt and a tie like the one that Dean sometimes has to wear when they go to visit witnesses. They’re face to face now, and he looks the same way Sam does when they have something he’s never seen before: curious, inquisitive. The man says, “Your lips are blue.” He touches Dean’s cheek with the tips of his fingers, slides them up to his forehead. Dean can’t feel the touch but he _can_ feel something like liquid warmth slipping through him like molten lava, right from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.

Dean hears Dad yelling somewhere in the distant background, closer and then closer still. “ _Dean,_ ” he yells. “ _Dean!_ ” His neck turns over to the left in the direction of his voice, throat scratching when he yells back, “Here!” When he looks up again the man is gone, and the only evidence he was ever there are two footprints in front of where he’s sitting.


End file.
